


Hold Onto Yourself

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last templar grabs Evelyn by the hair, yanking her upward. She comes to life, making a pained sound and trying to claw at him with her nails. “You like that elf, don’t you?” he says. “You know, our orders were to bring you in alive. No mention of any companions. We slit his throat, no one will care.”<br/>Evelyn goes still. Her eyes meet Solas’s, and in that moment, he sees the future stretch before him. A howl of fury, of denial, wells up within him. </p>
<p>Fill for a kink meme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Onto Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for violence and non-con; please take care if either of these things are triggering. For more details, check the end notes.

They drain his mana and bind him.

It shouldn’t be enough, but it is.

_A shadow of himself_ , his mind whispers. _Powerless and weak; he would have had these men crawling on their knees were he—_

—But he’s not.

Fury burns in his chest, stoked to new heights when one of the templars kicks his legs out from under him. Solas falls to the ground, unable to catch himself, and feels the impact through his bones.

“Don’t touch him!”

Her voice cuts through the templars’ laughter. It carries all of her usual command, but this time there is no one here to heed it. Solas rolls over, trying to see her. Three templars; three damned red templars. Their eyes are bloodshot and their auras radiate power, but they are not too far gone yet. Solas senses the blight running beneath their skin like a fever. They are giddy on the power, unaware of how they are tinder for that power.

One of the templars has Evelyn by the wrist. Her staff is broken on the ground. She thrashes against him, going for one of the knives at her belt. It sinks between the crease of his neck and shoulder, jabbing through the gap in his armor. The templar howls, and the sound gives Solas some satisfaction, some hope that they might get through this.

And then one of the templars backhands her. His fist is armored and the blow strong enough to send her crashing into the ground. Solas makes a sound; he isn’t sure if he wanted to say her name or swear aloud, but it dies on his lips. Blood wells along her cheek, and her eyes flutter. She lays still, stunned.

“You let her get at you?” says the other templar, laughing. The wounded one yanks the knife from his flesh, dropping it. His blood glimmers sickly under the sunlight.

“She’s fast,” says the wounded one, snarling.

The last templar, the one who struck Evelyn, smiles. “Rather protective of that elf, isn’t she?” He casts a look at Solas. “An elf, isn’t it? Didn’t think the herald would be slumming it with some knife ear.”

Solas’s eyes remain on Evelyn. There is no point to answering; no answer that will give these men satisfaction. Evelyn remains too still for his comfort, her eyes roaming beneath her lids, as if she can hear but not move. His bound wrists ache, the chain cutting into them, but it is of little matter. He needs to get to her, heal her—

The last templar grabs Evelyn by the hair, yanking her upward. She comes to life, making a pained sound and trying to claw at him with her nails. “You like that elf, don’t you?” he says. “You know, our orders were to bring you in alive. No mention of any companions. We slit his throat, no one will care.”

Evelyn goes still. Her eyes meet Solas’s, and in that moment, he sees the future stretch before him. A howl of fury, of denial, wells up within him. _No_ , he tries to say with his eyes. _Do not. Not for me._

“If we’re going to spare him,” says the templar, “we’re going to need incentive.”

Evelyn understands a moment after Solas does. Her face goes hard, and she looks at Solas again, at his bound and helpless form and he hates himself in this moment for his own weakness.

Her mouth moves, soundlessly at first, but then she finds her voice. “Don’t hurt him.”

The templar smiles. “You’re a mage,” he says, in a voice soft with triumph. “You know what to do.”

Evelyn’s throat jerks in a swallow. Her hands fall limply to her sides.

The first templar is on her in a moment, his fingers working the clasps on her shirt. She doesn’t protest, doesn’t fight back, doesn’t make a sound. The surrender in her makes Solas struggle against his bonds. They are tight, too secure for him to break, and he tries to call forth mana that isn’t there. Pain flashes through his head.

“Not here,” says Evelyn suddenly, “please—I won’t struggle. But don’t do this here.”

“What?” says the wounded templar. “Don’t want your lover to see?” He reaches down, roughly palms one of her breasts.

She struggles, tries to escape his touch, but that is the last time she is allowed to move. The other templars seize her wrists and pin her to the ground.

Solas wants to close his eyes. Wants to see anything but this—but he won’t. He watches.

He watches as the templars strip her, throw her torn and ruined clothes aside, and fall upon her like beasts. He watches as the first templar forces his fingers between her legs. He watches as the man delves into her, like a greedy child finding a trinket; he works too quickly and too roughly for her comfort. Solas watches her spine straighten, her lips bitten as she forces herself not to cry out. He watches as the templars hold her down while the first one, the wounded one, adjusts his armor, pulling at his own clothing. Watches as the templar yanks her knees apart, watches as Evelyn lets him, as she lays there like a wounded animal, waiting for a hunter to bring a knife across her throat. A willing sacrifice.

The templar presses into her with a low moan. Her whole body seizes, limbs jerking, but the other templars keep a tight hold. The man rolls his hips, seating himself fully inside of her. There is no rhythm to his movements; it is jerky and hard, as if he wants to batter her from the inside out.

Solas thrashes against his bonds and feels something give. Blood trickles down his fingers.

“Not a bad fuck,” says the templar, his voice strained. He pushes her thighs wider, trying to deepen his angle. She cries out, and the pain in her voice seems to be what he was waiting for. His thrusts become a frenzy, pressing into her again and again, until he finds his release. He groans loudly and his back arches in pleasure.

“Loosened her up for you,” he says. He pulls out, presses a thumb to her as if testing his handiwork.

The second templar wastes no time in taking his place. He surges inside of her, with less grace than the first man. Evelyn’s face is hard, her eyes fixed on the trees above her. She seems somehow removed from the goings on, but her body is rigid with pain.

“You like this, don’t you?” says the second templar. He grinds against her, palm pressed to her stomach. “Held down and filled. You pretend, like all you mages do, but you all like it—”

The bindings cut deeper into Solas’s wrists and the blood drips from his fingertips. The sight of it is a revelation. He looks down at the crimson staining his pale skin, and he calls it forth.

Blood magic isn’t hated because it is forbidden; it is hated because templars cannot take it from a mage. With blood magic, there is no need for mana, for books, for finesse. It is primal, instinctive, and the only way to take it from a mage is to bleed them dry.

He once stated that he doesn’t practice blood magic and as a rule, he doesn’t. But he does know how to use it. His bindings fall away.

The first man to die is the one who spoke. A simple kill—a bolt of energy straight through his brain. He falls forward, his body slamming into the ground beside Evelyn, his cock still inside of her. She struggles then, her fire coming back to life as she kicks the man’s body away from her. The other templars leap to their feet, ready to fight, but this is no fight. It is a slaughter.

Solas sets the second templar’s blood on fire. He screams and moves, tries to outrun the agony and the burning, but the red lyrium greedily feeds back into the magic. He curls in on himself and doesn’t move again.

As for the last templar, the one that suggested this arrangement, Solas doesn’t use magic. He already has Evelyn’s fallen knife in hand, and before the templar can react, Solas slams the blade through his eye.

Another scream. A crash, and then the man goes still.

Solas stands there for a moment, admiring his own handiwork with a cold satisfaction. Then he falls to his knees beside her. “Vhenan," he says, and he barely recognizes his own voice. She has already risen to a crouch, pressing her fists into the damp ground to keep herself upright. Her face is swollen and bloody, and he thinks there is more blood between her legs. She is staring at the first templar’s corpse, watching it as if for signs of life.

“Vhenan,” Solas repeats. “It’s all right. They won’t touch you again.”

Evelyn sways. Her eyes go unfocused. “Solas,” she breathes.

“It’s all right.” His hands flutter uselessly around her. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

Her eyes meet his. “You killed them.” She shudders, so hard that her elbows give out and she falls to one side. Solas reaches to steady her, then draws away. He will not touch her until she gives him some sign that it is all right.

“I am sorry,” he whispers. Sorry for not saving her sooner; sorry for letting them walk into an ambush in the first place; sorry he has not the strength to heal her now.

“I—I don’t think I can stand up by myself.” She says the words as if this is the only thing that matters, that she is ashamed she needs help.

His heart feels as if it might shatter. “Let me get your pack,” he says quickly, and finds their fallen possessions. He drapes a cloak around her and she accepts it, clutching it around her shoulders like a shield. 

He picks her up, holding her gently against his chest. He is afraid she will struggle and pull away, repulsed by any man’s touch, but she rests her head against his shoulder. Her eyes slip shut and she relaxes, trusting him.

A trust he in no way deserves, not after he let her be so injured. And on his behalf, no less.

He carries her away from the clearing. There are elvhen ruins nearby; he can sense the old wards. It will take little mana to reactivate them. He slips amidst the columns and broken stones, finding a place to settle. There is a covered space some distance in and he carefully maneuvers Evelyn to the ground. He secures a blanket, trying to convey comfort through his touch when he tucks it around her.

“I need to set up wards,” he says. “I’ll return in a moment.”

She hesitates, then nods. He rises to his feet and strides purposefully away. The wards are indeed easy to reclaim; it takes only the slightest magic to ensure that any encroaching templars will be blown halfway to the void should they approach.

He hastens back to her. Evelyn rests on the ground, unmoving, her eyes fixed and unblinking. She does not speak when he reaches out to touch her. “Can you sit up?”

She tries and he helps her, placing a palm beneath her elbow. Once he is sure she will not fall, he gestures at her face. “I do not have mana enough to heal you, but I should see to your wounds.”

Her eyes are strangely dull, but her voice is level. “Do it.”

He cleans the wound on her cheek. The templar’s armored fingers left behind broken skin and bruises, and her cheekbone might be cracked; he can’t tell, not here.

“My heart,” he says softly. He can’t say the next words, but she understands. She always understands.

She pulls the cloak up and away from her legs, revealing pale, bruised flesh. With utmost care, he guides her legs apart. The templars did make her bleed; she is swollen and sore and he wets a fresh cloth. She sucks in a breath, but doesn’t flinch away.

He flexes his injured wrist and fresh blood wells up. He knows the risk, using so much power at once, but he cannot stand to see her in such pain. With an effort of will, he closes the small wounds inside of her, and uses the rest of his power to cleanse any trace of those men away.

“I am sorry,” he says, once he is finished. He pulls the cloak around her. Sweat has broken out on her brow and she shivers. “I wish I could do more.”

“It’s enough,” she replies. “I—I didn’t want any part of them in me.” She reaches for him, takes his hand between both of hers. She frowns down at his wound. “You may have permanently damaged your hand, though.”

“It will heal.”

She shakes her head slightly and reaches for a fresh bandage. He wants to protest, to tell her not to worry about him, but she has a stubborn line between her brows. She wraps his wound, binds it tight, then nods in satisfaction.

This woman. This beautiful, kind woman who cares for him when he failed her. “I should have stopped it,” he says quietly. “I should have done something—I didn’t even think about—not until I was already bleeding.”

“Don’t apologize.” She shivers again and he draws closer. When she doesn’t protest, he sits beside her and she leans against him. “You saved me.”

“You wouldn’t have needed saving had they not threatened me.”

Her lips press together. “They would have hurt me regardless,” she murmurs. “The only difference is that had you not been there, I would still be in that clearing.” She takes his arm and guides it around her; he gladly cradles her to his chest, tucking her against him.

“I thought you didn’t use blood magic,” she says, and there’s a flicker of life in her eyes. As if remembering those words rouses her. “You told Cole you didn’t.”

He trails his fingertips over her uninjured cheek. “There is nothing I would not do to keep you safe,” he says softly. “I am sorry that you experienced such a thing.”

“I am a mage who grew up in a circle tower,” she says, her breath warming his chest. “What makes you think that this is the first time?”

He trembles. It is not fear or even surprise, because he knew such things went on in the circles. It is suppressed rage, a contained fire that makes him tremble. He will see those circles torn apart, see the templars dead upon the ground before he will ever let another mage be trapped in such a place.

He understands for the first time why she never returned Cullen’s obvious affections. Why she has always been so cold to Vivienne.

“If you asked me to kill every templar in Thedas, I would do it,” he murmurs.

Not now. But later, perhaps. Once the orb is reclaimed and he can truly be called dread again. A new hunt.

She makes a sound that might be a laugh. “How about we settle for just the red ones?” She brushes her lips over his jaw and he looks down at her. She is here, whole and herself, unbroken by those monsters.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she says.

“You are the strongest, most beautiful woman I have ever met.” He turns into her, letting his lips glide over hers. The kiss is light and gentle, a moment of comfort rather than passion. “My heart.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not usually into non-con as a rule but this prompt grabbed at me and just wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it. 
> 
> The original prompt: The Inquisitor and Solas are out on inquisition business or just on a date and get captured and he's forced to watch her be raped and/or tortured whilst tied up or in some kind of barrier to prevent him getting to her. Eventually he gets to her somehow, brutally murdering their captors afterwards. Then he helps the Inquisitor recover whilst just being angry and blaming himself that he let it happen.  
> I'd prefer Solas and the Inquisitor to be lovers, but any inquisitor (lavellan, trevelyan, ect) is fine! I just want angst and hurt/comfort from Solas to her after the ordeal, with reassurance and healing and helping her.


End file.
